


living in the city ain't where it's at

by spock



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blow Jobs, Business Trip, Denial of Feelings, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Gay/Straight Pining Trope Inversion, Intimacy, Jealousy, M/M, Mild/Implied Emotional Manipulation, One-Sided Relationship, Platonic Life Partners With Benefits, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Relationship of Convenience, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: Words hanging between them, it does sound like an offer. He can practically hear Pacho's answer should Chepe shy away, since it would be the same one Chepe would level if their roles were reversed:ah, just as well, not a man after all.
Relationships: Hélmer "Pacho" Herrera/José "Chepe" Santacruz Londoño
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	living in the city ain't where it's at

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/gifts).



There isn't a day that goes by where Chepe isn't sure that Gilberto does these things just to spite him.

"I don't need a fucking babysitter," he says, knowing full well that doing so won't change a thing. It's clear from the set of their shoulders down to the relaxed sprawl of their legs that the brothers won't be swayed from their decision.

Pacho lets out a snort from where he's fixing himself a drink at the bar across the room, the little shit. "I heard that, Pachito!" Pacho raises his hands out to the side but doesn't bother with turning around or even pretending to seem contrite beyond the gesture.

"It isn't babysitting, Chepe," Gilberto promises. "Pacho was getting arrested in New York before we even dreamed of pushing cocaine." He points to Pacho, as if to illustrate some point. "Besides, we're all equals here, no?"

Chepe supposes that at least is true. He’d only been complaining to keep up appearances, anyway. A weekend in America with Pacho was infinitely preferable to one alone. "Fine," he says.

Pacho comes to stand next to him, two drinks in hand, one of which he passes to Chepe. It's a cocktail. “The fuck is this?” Chepe mutters, even as he taps their glasses together and downs it in one pull. He never goes for mixed drinks, but he also trusts Pacho’s taste; these two absolutes pitted against one another, Chepe will go with Pacho always. It's delicious. Pacho grins at him, at whatever expression has overtaken Chepe's face as he swallows and decides that he likes it, self-satisfied bastard that he is. Chepe taps his now-empty glass against Pacho’s still-full one again and says again, "Fine, but don't you sleep on me."

Pacho does, of course. His head heavy on Chepe's shoulder. There are four other seats to be found on the private plane Miguel’s chartered for them, yet Pacho had chosen the one next to Chepe’s and promptly fallen asleep. Chepe can't quite bring himself to be mad; Pacho only looks his age when he's like this, and it softens Chepe's usual resolve.

There's a boy waiting for them at the airfield just outside of New York. His face lights up when Pacho steps off the plane behind Chepe, needlessly holding up a sign with Pacho's name despite them being the only ones on the tarmac.

Pacho takes the boy's face into his hands once they reach him, pressing lingering kisses to his cheeks. "Ah, Emmanuel," he says. "It's been too long."

Chepe clears his throat before things can get going, too used to this particular dance. There's that one saying, _a girl in every port_ — and then there's what Pacho's managed to achieve: boys, groups of them, all of them loyal and stupid, willing to do anything Pacho asks the moment he calls for them. Pacho looks back at Chepe from over his shoulder, smile not dimming. "Ah, and this is Chepe Santacruz, my associate." One of the thumbs Pacho has at the corner of the boy's mouth playfully tugs at his bottom lip, stretching the already too-wide grin that the boy’s sporting. "Manu, you can call him Papí."

"Absolutely not."

Not missing a beat, Pacho drops his hands, placing both over his heart. "Ah, forgive me, Manu, I forget myself. Only I can call him that."

The boy’s smile tilts down, losing some of its shine, as his eyes dart between the two of them. He must not know Pacho that well, if he can't see the shit-stirring for what it is. Chepe resolves not to indulge Pacho further. "Emmanuel," he asks, "are you here to drive the car?"

"Yes!" He reaches for Pacho's overnight bag, taking it easily, and then extends his free hand at Chepe to offer the same. Chepe waves him off, and they walk the short distance to where the car is waiting. "Have you ever been to New York, Mr. Santacruz?"

Chepe lets Emmanuel open the door for him and settles into the backseat, closing his eyes behind his shades just as he sees Pacho install himself into the passenger side up front. "I'm taking a nap," Chepe says.

"Ignore him, Manu." The driver's side door opens and closes, the car shaking a little with the force. "Flying makes him grumpy."

He pretends not to listen to their flirting as Emmanuel drives them to whatever hotel that's been arranged for their stay, breathing steady the entire ride into the city, willing for a drowsiness that eludes him. Likely too much fucking conversation.

Pacho kisses the boy goodbye once they arrive, sending him off with that lingering press to the corner of his mouth as Chepe tries to communicate to the valet with his eyes that they won't need him, that the car and its driver won’t be staying.

Pacho takes care of their check-in, English flowing easy from his lips, returned to his element. Something finally goes right for Chepe, luck turning his way in the form of the girl helming reception. Pacho is succinct in the way he only ever is around women, polite and completely oblivious to her attempts to engage him into conversation, to meet her eye.

Gilberto would say he's being unkind, and Chepe supposes that is true. Pacho knows how he looks. It's more accurate to say that he doesn't care so much as to humor her. Chepe watches, amused, and is tempted to test the limits of his English, to joke about wanting to upgrade to a honeymoon suite just to see the hope on her face collapse in on itself. Knowing Pacho, the bastard may take him up on it, if just to cause Chepe an extra form of grief.

Whenever the brothers travel they accept no less than a suite apiece, but Pacho and he are far more humble. The room they walk into reflects this, a wide-open floorplan with two large beds spaced apart in the center of the wall to the right of the door, the one opposite nothing but windows, the waning light of the setting sun painting the city below them a hazy pink that tints the white interior of the room as well.

Pacho excuses himself to the bathroom as they step inside, and Chepe drops down onto the couch bisecting the room to wait his turn, wishing that he had slept on the plane as Pacho had done, or at least managed it in the ride into the city. He tosses his shades onto the cushion beside him, rubbing his eyes for a moment as exhaustion finally hits him. He only opens them to the sound of Pacho stepping back into the room. He looks even better than he had when he left it.

Chepe sees his own disgusted expression reflected back at him from Pacho's face. These are the moments when he realizes that the four of them have known each other far, far too long, these times when the things once unique to them have now bled into the other without effort or thought. "Why aren't you dressed?" Pacho asks. "You aren't so old that you're ready for bed already, eh, Chepe? We're going out."

He shouldn't even consider it. Chepe knows better. It's just — if any one of them is responsible for having taught Pacho how to have a good time, it’s Chepe. He isn't about to let Pacho forget it either, not when there's only ever been eight years separating them. Still, some things must be said. Suspicious, he asks, "Going out _where_?"

Pacho grins.

Chepe is sure that Pacho has brought him to the loudest, most obnoxious gay club that he knows.

The joke is on him, of course, because Chepe has always been the loudest, most obnoxious of all of them. Miguel and Gilberto are usually content to leave them to their own devices, and Chepe, for all his bitching, has never been able to deny Pacho anything, or to leave him on his own. It was long ago that Chepe found himself pleased to discover that for all that there are men who fall over themselves for Pacho, there are just as many for whom Chepe inspires similar reactions.

They buy him drinks and smile stupidly at his accent, charmed to assume that he doesn't speak English. Chepe, happy to accept the drinks as they come, is all the more inclined to shrug off their conversation.

Pacho has a habit of oscillating in clubs like this, moving from the bar to the dancefloor every other song, constantly upgrading the man on his arm for someone impossibly better looking during each circuit. The routine changes once Chepe leaves the bar, managing to commandeer a table for himself, his suitors abandoned. Pacho comes his way, two drinks in hand and uncharacteristically alone, not a man standing at the bar seemingly able to keep themselves from staring at Pacho’s ass as he walks away. “Alright?” he’ll ask, and Chepe will nod, taking the drink as he watches Pacho’s back disappear into the crowd of bodies on the dance floor.

Chepe hooks him by his belt loop on Pacho's fourth pass-by. Pacho allows himself to be pulled into the circle-booth, greedily downing the drink Chepe’s been nursing as easily as if it'd been water and settling the new one he’s brought for Chepe onto the table to replace it.

"What is it about these young boys that you like so much, Pacho?" Chepe's drunk enough that he's graduated from watching Pacho to _thinking_ about him, which is never a good sign.

Pacho doesn't seem to waste time in thinking about his answer, the reply easily launching from the tip of his tongue. "Their stamina," he says. "Eagerness to please. Loyalty."

Chepe frowns, exaggerated, as he twists to the side to face Pacho, eyeing him up in the blinking lights of the club. "Why haven't you got any of those things, then?" he asks. "Besides loyalty, of course."

Pacho laughs. "Of course."

It's no fun when Pacho doesn't rise to the bait, Chepe thinks. "I think you need a man, brother," He says, changing track, and realizes that it's true only after he’s said it. "To keep you in line." Pacho's eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth twitching down, and Chepe decides to go in for the kill. "You are just a boy yourself, really."

Pacho leans back, the fingers of one hand tapping out a rhythm on the table that doesn't match the music pounding overhead, the other holding what's left of Chepe’s stolen drink in the air in front of his lips. They stare at one another as Pacho opens his mouth to take the ice into his mouth, gaze never breaking as he bites into it.

It's rare that Pacho's angry with him, practically non-existing when compared to the frequency of disagreements between the brothers, but his eyes are hard as he slides in close to Chepe's side, only stopping once their noses touch to ask, "Are you volunteering, Chepe?"

Is he? Words hanging between them, it does sound like an offer. He can practically hear Pacho's answer should Chepe shy away, since it would be the same one Chepe would level if their roles were reversed: _ah, just as well, not a man after all_.

Chepe grins, slow, lazy, and presses a quick kiss to Pacho's lips.

Pacho doesn't so much as blink, face serious.

In a flash he's up onto his knees, toned body thin enough to relocate himself into Chepe's lap, the table at his back ensuring that his flat stomach presses tight to Chepe's belly, faces closer now than he’d been before. "What were you saying, Chepe?"

The muscle of Pacho's thighs test the seams of the suit pants he's got on, filling the fabric where they're stretched on either side of Chepe's hips, legs folded as he hovers over Chepe, knees supporting his weight. They're warm when Chepe rests his palms on them, strong. "You need someone to keep you in line," Chepe says again.

Miguel's always had this vicious grin, one he brings out before he ruins someone’s entire life, goes after them so thoroughly that even their cousins suffer. It's _this_ look that stretches across Pacho's face now, callous, that same cruelty existing in Pacho's heart. For all that Miguel is forced to scheme to make his vengeance possible, Pacho is able to accomplish the same with his own hands. "Of course."

Pacho's hand settles on top of Chepe’s, sliding it up from Pacho’s knee to his inner thigh where his cock rests, a rigid thing against which Chepe's palm easily curves around.

"You lied to me, Pacho."

He makes a considering sound, pressing into Chepe's hand. His breathing becomes deeper when Chepe squeezes the length of him, cock fattening up. Chepe finds himself impressed — he hadn't realized that Pacho was soft when he'd first put his hand on him. "You have got stamina," Chepe explains.

Pacho doesn't laugh at Chepe's joke. Something about the set of his body has shifted, violence replaced with something else. His hips work against Chepe's hand, and Chepe realizes rather abruptly that this is Pacho focused on _getting his_. Chepe strengthens his grip, lets Pacho hump into his hand, each roll of his hips resulting in a slow grind of Pacho’s ass against Chepe's dick, his own desire sprung to life.

His eyes drop shut. Chepe watches, fascinated, at the peace that settles over Pacho's face as he moves. The silence within him, quiet beyond his breathing. Chepe is so attuned to Pacho that he can hear it even over the bass of the music. Pacho hasn't the slightest regard for him, and Chepe finds that he likes it. Likes the way that Pacho looks, head hanging slack over Chepe's, lit up at odd angles in the shifting lights, the rhythm of his hips changing as one song fades to another.

He looks freer than Chepe's ever seen him, a side of Pacho that's hidden from the three of them. His mouth open in pleasure, eyebrows furrowed. Chepe leans forward before he's thought about what it is he's doing, kissing him, his whole body tingling at the unexpected sensation of Pacho’s mustache against his own.

It's not the way he usually goes about it; Chepe kisses Pacho the same way that Pacho kisses his boys, as if he's trying to draw Pacho in by his mouth, like he wants Pacho to get high off his passion, off of him. Like his kiss is a reward Pacho has earned.

Pacho laughs, because he's a little shit, but the sound of it catches in his throat as his hips, at least, seem to be on the same track Chepe was aiming for, rhythm slipping into a harsh grind. "Shit," Pacho whispers into the space between their lips. He trembles in Chepe's lap, back rigid for a long second as his body turns into a long line of tension.

The song changes again. Pacho pulls back, looking pleased. Sweat shines on his face and his fringe falls into his eyes. Chepe has to force himself to look away, eyes dropping. The lights go yellow overhead, bright enough for Chepe to make out the wet spot beginning to stain the fabric where the head of Pacho's cock rests trapped against his thigh.

Chepe feels insane, instincts pulling him into a million different directions. "Were you ever this young, Pacho?" He doesn’t know what he’s saying. His voice is like gravel to his own ears. Chepe licks his lips and tastes Pacho there.

Pacho smiles, wry, and shrugs. "Not really." He leans back, away, until his elbows rest behind him on the table, putting space between Chepe and himself. It's like a haze has cleared, the first time Chepe's breathed since Pacho sat in his lap. "It was fun to pretend tho, eh, Chepe?" His expression is indulgent.

The same as he has with his boys.

Chepe's dick is a throbbing ache, desperate for release. There was a moment, what feels like a lifetime ago, where he was about to ask Pacho to take of it, to suggest they have another go. He knows now that he can't, not without admitting to something that Pacho can never know.

He wakes up the next morning feeling too-heavy, weighed down by his thoughts as much as anything else. Pacho looks like he’s been up for hours, showered and sitting on his bed in a robe Chepe has seen before, that he must have brought it with him in his luggage. The hem sits high on Pacho’s thighs, showing off the tan length of his legs.

Ridiculous.

The television is on low, English carrying throughout the room in a murmur. Pacho spots that he’s awake and grins. “Whatever you want for breakfast, Chepe,” he calls into the space between their beds, waving the menu in his hand, “Say it and I’ll make it happen."

Meetings, an endless stream of meetings. Chepe realizes that this is why Pacho had to come, and wonders why they’d even bothered to send Chepe at all. The men they meet with all are entranced with Pacho, even the ones that Chepe are reasonably sure have no desire to fuck him. Or perhaps they do, and just haven’t realized the admiration for what it is yet.

Chepe can’t cast stones in that particular glass house.

The men they’re meeting with seem incapable of deciding things without a plate in front of them. Chepe sits, silent, his meal going cold as the food Pacho had brought up to their room that morning sits heavy in his belly.

Breakfast with hedge fund managers turns into lunch with executives, each one held at social clubs where doors are opened for Pacho the moment he graces their doorstep, looking like a foreign prince, while Chepe trails behind him garnering second- and third-glances. Places where the waitstaff tries to catch Pacho’s eye with as much fervor as the boys had at the club the night before. The City is made for Pacho.

Chepe watches him work. The Colombian accent lilting his English only seems to add to his charm in their eyes, each of them leaning closer to better understand — or at least under the pretense of such.

Chepe thinks that he must look like some sort of hired goon, a bodyguard to care for Cali’s crown jewel rather than Pacho’s equal.

The lunch finally ends, Pacho shaking their hands and exchanging well-wishes. “Another?” Chepe asks, wondering if he can stand to pick at another plate. If it is late enough in the day for him to order a drink without it looking like a potential business liability.

Pacho shakes his head. “Not until dinner.” They step out onto the street, and Pacho pulls a pack of cigarettes from his dress pants and shakes one between his lips. Chepe pulls out his lighter, holding it up to Pacho’s face until it catches. He lets Pacho have the first inhale before he snipes it away, taking a drag for himself. “You could talk, Chepe.”

Chepe supposes that he could. “They don’t want to know how it’s made, where’d I’d set up processing,” he says. “They want to know logistics — _numbers_. And they want them to spill from those pretty lips of yours, huh, Pacho?”

Pacho’s fingers graze Chepe’s lips as he takes the cigarette back, shrugging. He begins to walk, back in what Chepe remembers to be the general direction of their hotel, only a few blocks east of the restaurant where their lunch meeting had been. Chepe follows him, shoulder to shoulder in the crush of weekend foot-traffic within the city. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Chepe. This is gonna be your home soon enough.”

Chepe eyes him. “Someone got a hit out on you here, huh?” He gestures randomly with his chin to all the people passing them by. “That why I had to come? Watch your ass?”

Pacho’s arm settles across his shoulders, bringing them together as they carry on down the sidewalk. Chepe tilts his head up to look at him. “Chepe, you know you can do that in Colombia, no?” Pacho’s smile is blinding, the asshole. Their hotel comes into view, doorman spotting Pacho and already pulling it open for them. “Maybe _I_ had to come and wanted you here too. Won’t be long now before we barely see each other.”

It’s embarrassing, how hearing that brings up _sentiment_ in Chepe. Pacho taps the button to summon the elevator and it dings, already having been on the ground floor. They step inside and Chepe grabs hold of Pacho’s face before he can move to hit the number for their floor, pulling Pacho in.

For a second his mind flashes to the night before, Pacho in his lap, leaning in close all on his own and reacting to Chepe’s kisses with his entire body. Using Chepe to get himself off.

He presses a kiss, closed-mouthed and loud to Pacho’s cheek, muttering _spoiled kid_ before letting Pacho go, telling himself all the while that he hadn’t considered doing anything else.

He holds off on eating when Pacho offers to get them something off the room service menu again, and that ends up being a mistake. Dinner apparently meant little more than drinks over complicated conversations at a bar that they end up leaving after Chepe’s only just started in on his second glass. He piles into a limousine behind Pacho, full to capacity with the group they’re meeting with. These sorts, at least, are the types that Chepe is used to. Seedy-looking, so much more flash with their money than the men from the morning had been. Some flavor of narco like them, for better or worse.

Pacho ends up half-sitting in Chepe’s lap, his arm over Chepe’s shoulders in a loose embrace for balance while Chepe winds his own around Pacho’s middle to try to stabilize him as the driver takes them through the city. Eventually the ride comes to a stop, and they all pour onto the sidewalk, eager for fresh air. Once the fog of cologne has cleared his lungs Chepe realizes exactly where they are.

The neon lights can only mean one thing.

Chepe laughs.

Pacho looks to be bored out of his mind. Sat at a table, staring at his fingers as they circle the rim of his glass while women walk by in various states of undress. The men they’re with all crowd the stage, throwing twenties and begging for attention. Chepe returns from the bar to sit next to Pacho, handing him another drink. “How is it,” Chepe asks, settling back into his chair, “That I can have a good time at one of your clubs, yet you look miserable in one of mine?”

A waitress hurries over to collect Pacho’s empty glass, falling over herself to get there before two of her coworkers, both of which had the unfortunate disadvantage of being just slightly farther away. Pacho sets it on the tray without looking at her, giving Chepe a thin smile. “You’re more open-minded than me, Chepe.”

Chepe wants to slap him. So he does, a light tap to Pacho’s that makes him laugh, a smile finally breaking out across that face of his.

A man comes out from the back, looking around. Pacho’s face lights up and he stands. The man spots him and hurries over, hand extended to shake Pacho’s. “Hélmer!” he says. “It’s been too long!” His hand cups Pacho’s cheek, patting it a few times as they grin at one another.

Chepe frowns.

Pacho introduces Chepe to him, to this man called Ivan who he invites to sit in the free chair to Pacho’s left. His accent isn’t Colombian, but his Spanish is fluent and flows easily. The rest of the men drift back, the girls on stage filing off into the back. Pacho switches back to English, introducing Ivan to them all.

It’s smart. A strip club is exactly the sort of bed they’ll need to climb into to wash their money clean before getting it back home to them in Cali. Ivan seems to know what he’s doing, ingratiating himself to the men with laughter at their awful jokes, humoring their drunkenness. Chepe can follow well enough to pick out the numbers that he’s pitching, the amount of cash they move.

The girls keep coming, never without drinks and the men get progressively drunker until any talks of business are lost for the evening. Chepe keeps himself in check, belly too empty to drink as much as he wants. It’s hunger gnawing at his nerves, making him agitated as he watches Pacho and Ivan lean into one another over the arms of their chairs, speaking in Spanish and yet it does Chepe no good, too far away and the music much too loud for him to make out what they’re saying.

Pacho keeps pace with the group’s drinking, slower to intoxication and better at hiding it once he’s well and truly gone. Chepe watches Pacho’s hand come to rest on Ivan’s knee, takes in the surprised change in Ivan’s posture, the way his face goes from shock to consideration. Chepe decides to call it a night.

“Hey,” Chepe shouts, kicking his foot to hit Pacho’s shoe. “Time to eat and go to bed, brother. There’s still the meeting in the morning before our flight, no?”

The look Chepe gets lets him know that Pacho had forgotten that Chepe had even been there. It stings, but once Pacho looks at him it’s like he’s forgotten the rest. “Chepe.” His voice doesn’t waver, cold-blooded even when drunk off his ass. He tips in his seat, away from Ivan and back towards Chepe, reaching to grab hold of Chepe’s thigh instead. “You won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t say I was,” Chepe answers, amused.

Pacho’s head swivels back to look at Ivan. “Until next time.”

The driver of the cab Chepe hails speaks Spanish, blessedly, but Chepe still hasn’t bothered to learn the name of their hotel and Pacho is much too drunk to be of any help. He describes the general area and the driver seems to get it, flipping his meter on and pulling into the stream of oncoming traffic.

Pacho cuddles into his side, lips attaching themselves to Chepe’s neck. “Ah,” he hisses. “Pacho, no marks.” It gets him a dissatisfied noise and a few more bites.

He almosts echos it when Pacho pulls away. Leaning against the opposite window, Pacho stares at Chepe, squinting as lights from storefronts and traffic signals flash by. “Aren’t you meant to look after me?”

They’re both drunk enough that Chepe can likely humor him without it coming back to haunt him. “You’re _my_ babysitter.”

Pacho skates his head. “No,” it’s more petulant than Chepe’s ever heard him be, even back when Pacho _had_ been a kid that the three of them had seen the endless potential within. “I’m trying older men now. You sit on me.”

The driver suddenly turns on the radio.

Chepe had been wrong about the whole not-haunting-him thing.

He has to hoist Pacho out of the back seat after they arrive at the hotel, throwing a handful of bills to the driver and trying not to be too offended at the looks the doorman is giving him as Pacho’s hand undoes the buttons of Chepe’s shirt as they pass through the door. Chepe drags Pacho through the entryway, the pawing at his chest now joined with a return of Pacho’s lips to his skin. It’s late enough that the lobby is a ghost town, and thankfully then the elevator as well, Pacho’s mouth never quitting its affair with Chepe’s neck. Pacho drapes himself over Chepe’s back while Chepe struggles to get the door open to their room, the thing closing with a slam behind them once they’re in.

It’s cool inside the room, the heat of the day gone, the air conditioning thrumming above them. Pacho sighs, taken to undressing himself for a change, and is compliant as Chepe helps him into his bed, eyes closed even before Chepe’s managed to lay him down. Chepe takes off Pacho’s shoes and sighs to himself.

He locks the bathroom door behind him and splashes cold water on his face, listening to see if Pacho might come to join him, unsure of what his reaction will be if Pacho does. Chepe hides inside the room until he suspects that Pacho might’ve fallen asleep, taking a leak and then getting undressed, feeling like an idiot for expecting something to happen.

Chepe cracks the door open and sighs when he sees that the room is dark and quiet. He takes careful steps past Pacho’s bed and lifts the covers of his own — to find Pacho laying in it, the low light from the city beyond their window reflecting in his eyes.

“How are you so stealthy when you’re drunk off your ass?” Chepe can hardly believe it.

Pacho shakes his head against Chepe’s pillow, patting the mattress in front of him. “I’m not drunk off my ass,” he insists. “Come to bed.”

“No,” Chepe says, even as he does, climbing in next to Pacho in nothing but his underwear. Their legs slide together under the blanket, Pacho’s leg hair catching against Chepe’s. “Sleeping with you is no fun. I didn’t even get to come yesterday.”

Pacho’s sigh is entirely too put-upon. Chepe settles back onto the pillow Pacho hasn’t claimed and is surprised when Pacho shifts his head onto Chepe’s chest, his hand coming to rest on Chepe’s stomach. Chepe hardly has any time at all to process the move, to ask Pacho what he’s doing, to hiss that he was _kidding, Jesus, Pacho_ , as Pacho’s hand slides down to fish Chepe’s cock from his boxers, holding him in a grip so perfect that Chepe can’t do anything more than gasp.

As quickly as he’d moved before, Pacho folds in on himself, hair a silky drag on Chepe’s abdomen as he gets his mouth level with Chepe’s cock and takes him between his lips, mouthing and licking at the head.

Chepe struggles to recall the last time he got so hard so quickly, mind latching onto the absurd thought before he loses himself completely to the sensations. Likely when he was Pacho’s age, if ever at all. It’s as if all his blood has rushed into his lap, even his balls sensitive as Pacho’s fingers stroke them, hands free to do what they will now that he’s taken Chepe deep into the back of his throat, easy as breathing.

It’s just the right amount of everything, pressure, spit, the bob of his head bringing Chepe to the precipice; like he’s been made for Chepe, as if he somehow picked this up just as he’d learned to laugh like Gilberto or frown as Chepe does.

“Shit!” Chepe is panting, breathing so loud, second only to the sounds of Pacho’s mouth filling the room. “Pacho.”

Pacho doesn’t move, swallowing, sucking, his finger dipping down to the place between the meat of Chepe’s thighs. Chepe comes into his mouth. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, ten, if he’s being generous with his ego. He sucks in lungfuls of air, blinking hard at the ceiling. Pacho pulls away and pats his stomach, head reappearing next to Chepe’s on the pillow, visible to Chepe from the corner of his eye.

“There,” Pacho says. He has a leg thrown over Chepe’s, his hips pressing into Chepe’s skin. His dick is soft. “We’re even. Go to bed.”

Pacho is up before him again, dressed and packed and looking at Chepe like he needs to get with the program. “Come now, brother.” Pacho’s siting by the fancy little coffee machine on the desk they haven’t touched, thumbing through the Times and drinking from a little white cup. “We’ve got a breakfast meeting and then it’s off to the airfield, let’s go already.”

Chepe takes a shower, out of spite as much as he does out of a need to collect himself, his cock tacky and sticking to his leg from Pacho’s spit and the remnants of his come. He takes care to bring his clothes in with him, and steps out fully dressed. It’s much easier for him to pack, only a few outfits and his cologne needing to go back into his bag. He hadn’t even bothered to bring his own toothbrush; Pacho never minding about sharing when Chepe comes begging.

There’s a boy at reception when they check out, tight curls and an olive complexion. Pacho flirts with him endlessly, reaching across the counter to playfully pull at his name tag, asking questions, making promises that their impending departure will have him breaking.

“Who are we meeting with, again?” Chepe asks, beaking into the little bubble that’s descended over the two.

Pacho tsks. “Impatient.” He gives the boy another smile, sliding him a crisp hundred dollar bill on top of the invoice they’ve already settled. “If you’re ever in Colombia, Spiros, you let me know.” The boy nods, clea that it’s now his life’s mission to make it happen, and Chepe can’t help but pity him.

Rather than catching a cab, Pacho starts walking down the block, seeming to have a destination in mind, bag casually thrown over his shoulder.

“Is the place nearby?” Chepe asks.

Pacho shakes his head, “No, but we have time.”

They pass by windows, high-end stores that neither of them ever could have dreamed of seeing when they were younger, let alone having the means to buy anything from them, something which seemed impossible even just a few years ago. One, in particular, catches his eye, Pacho staring at a row of watches before ducking inside.

Chepe follows him, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging at his side, holding his bag. They’re greeted by a salesman, cute enough, Chepe supposes, but Pacho is all business for once, nodding to the window and asking for the silver watch he’d liked.

“Souvenir for the boys back home?”

Pacho smiles, wry. “They’d never wear anything I picked, the bastards.” He shifts his wrist, gold watch catching in the light. “Even if I got them a fucking Casio, they’d say it was too flashy.”

Chepe laughs and they smile at one another. The man comes back, Pacho’s watch balanced on a little pillow.

Pacho reaches for the arm Chepe’s got in his pocket, pulling Chepe closer by it and then letting go to grab the watch, undoing the clasp and settling it on Chepe’s wrist. “Perfect, no?” He looks to the rep and says, in English, “Maybe remove a link or two? It’s just a little loose.”

The watch comes off and Chepe stares after it, the man getting his tools out and doing as Pacho had said.

It takes all of ten minutes before they’re back on the streets, Pacho hailing a cab for them as Chepe continues to stare at what is now his watch, flashy, thick and solid at his wrist.

Their last appointment is waiting for them when they arrive, gorgeous in a suit that fits him as well as Pacho’s own, the two of them such a sight that Chepe finds himself hating the bastard on principal.

“Franklin,” Pacho says, and Chepe hates the way he says the man’s name too. “This is Chepe Santacruz.”

“Wonderful to meet you; I’ve heard so much about you both.” He’s friendly, eager in the way that Colombian boys get when they’ve been in America too long. His grip on Chepe’s hand is both too-firm and limp at the same time. Chepe doesn’t return the greeting. He sits down, picks up his menu and starts scanning it, checking himself out from the conversation.

Pacho looks at him but doesn’t comment, sitting down at Chepe’s side while Franklin retakes his seat across from them. “I hear you’re thinking about returning to Colombia soon?”

Franklin nods, settling a napkin across his lap. “I’m always open to new opportunities.” Chepe snorts. Franklin looks offended but is smart enough to carry on as if he hadn’t heard. “Don Gilberto mentioned a Director’s position might be opening up at the bank?”

If he’s taken to calling Gilberto that, Chepe isn’t the least bit surprised that the brothers are the ones who scheduled this recruitment. Something inside of Chepe settles knowing that Franklin isn’t one of Pacho’s contacts from his time before he joined Chepe and the rest. That this man is Gilberto’s.

“So what are we eating?” he asks, cutting off Franklin’s answer to something that Pacho had asked. “What time is the flight again, Pacho?”

Gilberto and Miguel are waiting for them at the airfield when they touch down in Cali. Chepe grins down at them as he disembarks from the plane. “I knew it,” he shouts, “You miss us the minute we’re gone!”

Miguel rolls his eyes and turns to head for the car, but Gilberto comes to him, pulling Chepe in for a hug and doing the same with Pacho, hands warm on their faces as he palms their cheeks. “How did things go?”

“Promising.” Pacho had grabbed Chepe’s bag on the plane before Chepe had managed to, and he hands both of them to the driver that approaches them from the side, quietly collecting them and depositing them in the trunk. “No problems, at least.”

“Your men were all very good,” Gilberto says to Pacho. “There was a minor issue here and they handled it before we’d even known.” He shepherds them into the limousine, closing the door behind them. Miguel touches their hands in greeting they’ve joined him inside of it, patting Pacho’s cheek.

Pacho’s sits up straight, asking, “Issue?”

Miguel waves him off. “Unimportant,” he says. “I am, however, always impressed at the loyalty your dick inspires, Pacho.”

Pacho leans back into his seat, smirking. His eyes go to Chepe, who looks away the moment he does. Miguel doesn’t miss the look that they share. “And how was Chepe?” he asks, giving Chepe a considering look. “Behaved himself?”

“Eh,” Pacho shrugs, and the brothers laugh. Chepe swipes at him, which makes Pacho laugh as well. “Chepe had a good time,” Pacho adds. The marks he left all over Chepe’s neck are visible over the collar of his shirt, and Pacho nods at them, bringing them to Gilberto and Miguel’s attention, who hoot and call him names.

“Fuck you, Pacho,” Chepe says, even though he knows it’ll only make the brothers go after him harder. He flips his collar up and pushes his sunglasses higher on his nose, staring out the window and ignoring them all.

A whole line of Pacho’s little psychopaths are waiting out in front of Gilberto’s house when they arrive, their faces brightening once Pacho steps out. “I hear you did well,” he calls, and they all seem to glow impossibly brighter at the acknowledgment.

Miguel’s eyebrows go up. “You’ve trained them well, I’ll give you that, Pacho.”

“Of course,” Pacho grins. He pats Gilberto and Miguel on the back, pressing a kiss to Chepe’s cheek before he steps away; the three of them watch him as he goes. He stops in front of the man that Chepe knows stays with Pacho in his house, and Chepe observes him run his knuckles across the boy’s cheek, his smile shifting when it garners a blush. Pacho’s head tips down, looking down at him from the top of his aviator frames.

“He must have been insufferable in New York,” Miguel says.

“Ah, true, true,” Gilberto agrees. “There’s a lot of them in New York, aren’t there?” He nods at Pacho, whistling. “Pacho would have his pick.”

Chepe thinks that Pacho could have his pick anywhere.

“Shall we go in?” Chepe asks, knowing that it’ll fall to him to relay the deals he observed as Pacho crafted his deals, what Chepe’s plans are for what he thinks they should do with the banker that Gilberto’s found for them, now that Pacho’s has seen him secured.

“Ah! Pacho, time to go inside!” Gilberto flaps his hand, both Pacho and the boy turning to look their way, the spell of their reunion gone. Pacho dips in, kissing the boy’s cheek and whispering something in his ear, and then waves for his men to disperse.

“We made quite a few moves,” Pacho says, rejoining them. They walk into the house, Gilberto catching them up on a few meetings he’s had of his own while they were away, small talk.

They enter the study and Miguel heads for the bar, grabbing four glasses. Chepe walks over to help him, fixing his and Pacho’s; the two of them prefer to take their whiskey neat, while the brother’s doctor theirs with ice like the soft men they are.

He walks back where Gilberto and Pacho are already getting into things. Chepe leans over the back of Pacho’s chair, pressing the cool glass to Pacho’s cheek. Pacho doesn’t pause in his speaking, hand coming up to take the drink, fingers curling over Chepe’s. Gilberto cuts in, asking a question, and Pacho uses it as an opportunity to press a kiss to Chepe’s palm, lips catching against Chepe’s skin as he says thanks and then turns away, taking a sip and nodding at what Gilberto is aguing.

Chepe ruffles Pacho’s hair and takes his own seat, getting comfortable.


End file.
